


Denethor II, Steward of Gondor

by Estrella3791



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Denethor is reunited with his wife and son, F/M, but just a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 07:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estrella3791/pseuds/Estrella3791
Summary: It had surprised him, waking up. He had resigned himself to total darkness and torment for eternity, not sun on his face and grass tickling his neck. For a moment he had had a fleeting hope that all of it, from Boromir leaving for Imladris to his own death, had been naught but a terrible dream. That notion had been driven from his head the instant he saw Finduilas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I let myself think about sad things too much. I've always kind of wondered if, underneath, Denethor was a good man. I know that in the end he was awful, and, trust me, I hate him for the whole time that we see him in LotR, but I kind of wondered what happened/happens before and after. This is me wishing that everyone could be happy and have no cares.   
> I don't own anything, but I hope that you enjoy it! :)

Denethor watched Finduilas laughing with Boromir. For many years, he had longed for that very thing; to see his wife and son laughing together. And for many years, nothing would have stopped him from joining in; slipping an arm around his wife’s waist and chuckling as Boromir said something clever. Now, however, sitting as far away from anyone as he could get, Denethor derived no pleasure from the sight.

It had been the most painful thing he’d ever experienced, burning to death. And not only in the physical sense. Quite apart from the physical torture was the excruciating knowledge that he had almost killed Faramir. The sight of his son’s fevered face turning towards him had haunted his mind even as the flames destroyed his body. The psychological torment coupled with the physical pain had served to make the passing of Denethor one of the most painful and shameful of Middle Earth.

It had surprised him, waking up. He had resigned himself to total darkness and torment for eternity, not sun on his face and grass tickling his neck. For a moment he had had a fleeting hope that all of it, from Boromir leaving for Imladris to his own death, had been naught but a terrible dream. That notion had been driven from his head the instant he saw Finduilas. He supposed that the sight of his wife ought to have pleased him greatly, but all he could do was gape at her. The last time he had seen her, she had been in a coffin and had been very dead. Hadn’t she? When she was joined by Faramir, he had been convinced that it was all in his mind. They were all right-he was crazy. It was when he saw Théoden, King of Rohan, that he wondered what, exactly, was happening. Finduilas and Boromir had explained to him that he had come to rest in the Dwelling of Eru. He was finally free, they said. He could be truly happy and have no cares, they said. They thought it would please him.

It hadn’t. Quite the opposite, really. That he had been allowed to come to rest with all the noble and valiant heroes of Arda was nearly too much to bear. Next to Beren and Hùrin he could not hold up his head, so weighed down was it with guilt and shame. Finduilas had tired to tell him that all was forgiven him, that his mind had not been his own, and therefore he need not feel the shame, but she could not convince him. No one could. Denethor could not overcome the sense of dishonor and guilt. It did not seem possible to him that the real Denethor was the one who had lived with Finduilas, the one who had laughed and had loved and had not tried to kill his son. No matter what anyone told him, Denethor knew what he was. A fool and a murderer.

 

It was permitted, in the Dwelling of Eru Ilùvatar, to look upon the Land of the Living; to watch the deeds of those who yet walked and rode and breathed upon the Earth. Boromir and Finduilas went often to watch the deeds of Faramir. Denethor never did. He did not want to watch his son bow to the Ranger called Aragorn. He did not want to watch his son become little more than a servant. And, more than anything, he did not want to see and hear evidence that Faramir hated him. He could not blame his son for harboring the resentment, but he still did not want to go watch Faramir. He was sure it would hurt too much.

So the days passed, for nearly all in endless bliss, for Denethor in endless misery. It would never have ended had his eldest son not had a merry tongue. 

Denethor was sitting by a tree which was well out of everyone’s way, as he always did. He wore a blank expression, and no one would have been able to notice his inner turmoil unless they looked at his eyes. All of his pain, humiliation, and guilt were written in them. They followed his wife and son as they walked past him. They were wiping tears from their eyes, but they wept from mirth and not grief.

“I should have known that Èowyn would come rushing in,” Boromir chuckled.

“Indeed,” laughed Finduilas, “and with her sword drawn, no less. I’ve no doubt that the ambassador, despite his outwardly calm and stoic demeanor, was quaking in his boots at the barbaric Shieldmaiden.”

The two walked out of earshot, unaware of the seed they had just sown. Denethor stared after them. Èowyn? A barbaric Shieldmaiden? Who might she be, and what did she have to do with Faramir? 

The questions nagged at him for days until Denethor could stand it no longer. He wanted to look on the Land of the Living and see who this Shieldmaiden was. So he tentatively went to look for a place that might be the spot where everyone did their viewing. He did not see the pleased glances that Boromir and Finduilas exchanged behind his retreating back.

 

Denethor had never looked on Arda, and so he did not know what to do or expect. He saw no one on his way, for which he was thankful, and, when he reached the courtyard which he was sure his wife and son had entered countless times, nothing except a large basin in the center. He puzzled over this for a minute, and then his eyes widened as everything fell into place in his mind. This must be fashioned after the manner of the Mirror of Galadriel, and he had heard many stories about that. He wondered if he should look in it, after all. 

Eventually, curiosity overcame fear and he approached the basin-albeit a little cautiously- before peering into it. For a long moment, he saw only water. He was wondering if he was going about it wrong and should just leave when shapes shifted and sounds filled his ears and he found that he was looking at Faramir. His breath caught painfully in his throat when he saw that his son was lying still and cold on the ground. So he had succeeded in his dark task after all. Faramir was dead. A tear slid down his check and into the basin. The water rippled, and when it stilled, a Man, a Wizard, and a Halfling stepped out of the shadows. Denethor immediately recognized his knight Peregrin, and of course Gandalf. Though he did not know the Ranger, he saw that this could only be the one of whom Peregrin spoke-Isildur’s heir, Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of Gondor. He wondered what this assortment of people was doing with his son. The King knelt over Faramir’s still form and tended him with athelas. Denethor saw his son’s chest rise and fall, and was filled with relief. Of course Faramir was not dead. Denethor would have seen him here in this Dwelling of Eru, if it had been so. Satisfied that Faramir was all right, he looked back at Aragorn. The King.

He suddenly wished that he had paid more attention to the realm given to his care. Would all remember him as the Last Steward of Gondor, the one who let his city fall into disrepair before the return of the King? No. The Last Steward would be Faramir. Faramir. He looked back at his son and felt his heart break with regret. If only he could go back, only for a moment, and tell him that he was not and had never been a lesser man than Boromir. He wished that he could wrap his arms around his son and tell him how proud he had made his father, and how much that proud father loved him. But it was too late. He had missed his chance, and instead had hurt his son with cruel and harsh words.

The picture seemed to waver, and Denethor felt as though he was being pulled forward through time. When the feeling passed, he saw Faramir again. This time, he was well and whole and walking through the gardens. As he watched, his son was joined by the Warden of the Houses of Healing and a remarkably beautiful woman. Denethor saw Faramir’s eyes widen as he looked at the lady, doubtless in appreciation of the long golden hair and comely face, and then fill with confusion as he looked back at the Warden. Denethor preferred to keep looking at the lady, himself. On closer inspection he saw that the comely face was filled with pain and grief, and he wondered what the cause could be. He looked back at the Warden when the gravelly voice of the old man filled his ears. As he listened to the Warden, he learned that this was the Lady Èowyn, and that she had been wounded in battle following her lord and King.

Denethor quickly put two and two together. Thèoden must have come to help Gondor – the way that they had not helped him - and perished in the attempt. That was why the King of Rohan was here in the Dwelling of Eru. The former Steward winced at the thought. He had been a stubborn, prideful fool, and he had hurt many because of it-not least his younger son. 

He felt the sting of tears and forced his attention back to the Mirror. The Warden was gone, and Faramir was agreeing to let Lady Èowyn have a room that better suited her taste. Denethor felt something akin to amusement, which he had not felt in a very long time, well up in him as he watched his son stare after Èowyn with a love struck smile on his face. 

Before he could dwell on it, the scene once again changed. Faramir was still in the garden, but this time the lady was with him. Denethor listened to his son talk with her, watched the young man’s eyes light up, watched the young lady’s smile first appear and then widen.

That was the first of many conversations in the gardens, and Denethor listened to all of them, marveling at Èowyn’s bravery, his son’s keen wit, and his own stupidity for not having appreciated Faramir. His son was greater men than Denethor could have been proud of. His kindness, his courage, and his sharp mind all led Denethor to the conclusion that by the age of ten Faramir would have been a much better Lord of Gondor than he had been. 

Denethor watched his son and Èowyn come to know each other and slowly but surely heal from their wounds. He watched Faramir lead Èowyn up the stairs to the wall. He watched them comfort each other. He saw the way that they looked at each other. And he smiled, truly smiled, smiled like he had when he and Finduilas had walked through Ithilien together. Faramir took Èowyn’s hand, and the wind took her hair and it mixed with Faramir’s. Denethor looked at the raven and gold mingling in the wind and he felt a sense of peace, of contentment, of healing, wash over him, and for the first time since he had woken up in Eru’s Dwelling he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could be forgiven. With a deep sigh of satisfaction, Denethor watched the next two weeks unfold, and when Faramir took Èowyn in his arms and kissed her underneath the sunlit sky, he felt tears of joy well up in his eyes.

“Denethor?”

He whirled around, although he didn’t need to. He knew that voice very well.

“Finduilas.”

She approached him and reached up to carefully wipe away his tears.

“It’s all right,” she said softly.

“Yes,” he whispered, “it is.”

He tentatively leaned down to cover her mouth with his. The kiss was one of apology, forgiveness, sorrow, joy, and, above all, love. Denethor reluctantly drew back and traced her cheek with his hand. 

“I love you,” he told her, his voice rough with tears.

Finduilas had yearned to hear him say that for the decades that she had been in this Dwelling without him, and hearing it now made her eyes fill to the brim.

“I love you, too,” she said. “So much.”

Before Denethor could kiss her again, he heard another familiar voice.

“Father?”

He turned, and felt his eyes fill once more.

“Boromir.”

He approached his oldest son slowly, unsure of what to do next. Before he had to decide, Boromir was wrapping his arms around his father.

“It’s all right. It’s all right,” he said, and Denethor could hear tears in his voice. Boromir held out an arm to his mother, and the family held onto each other as they wept healing tears.

 

A week later, Denethor was fairly certain that he could not be happier. He had spoken with Thèoden and thanked him for coming to aid Gondor. The former King of Rohan had smiled. 

“It was what we had to do,” he said simply, and Denethor had grasped his hand in thanks. 

He spent every waking moment with his wife and son, cherishing each of them as they laughed and sang. He had reunited with his parents. He had met all the heroes he had read about in history class.

He knew it as he looked into the Mirror with an arm around his wife’s waist and his eldest son beside him. He knew it as he saw Thèoden and his parents out of the corner of his eye. He knew it as he gazed into the basin, watching his son marry a woman who he would be proud to call his daughter. Denethor knew that he could not be any happier.


End file.
